Even if it takes the rest of my Life
by sherlorq
Summary: A year after the Fall. A year after the suicide. A year after saying goodbye. But now, it's time for Sherlock to come back. Will it be as simple as he hopes? There is one thing he is positive of. He will spend the rest of life fighting for forgiveness.
1. Chapter One - Greg Lestrade

**Chapter One – **_**Greg Lestrade**_

"The murder at the lakeside- it was the fisherman. Your team overlooked the style of his trousers." Sherlock said, as he strolled into Lestrade's office. It was unreal; he hadn't been here for 12 months. He had already perplexed most of the station when walking to the office. He had seen this happening; most people would be startled to see the man who jumped off a building walking through the breaks in the desks.

But something was different. The usual picture frame holding the photo of Greg and his wife was not crooked on the corner of his desk. Instead it was replaced by a stack of filed paperwork. The dark grey interior was now crystal white, the shutters had been replaced and there was now a brand new leather office chair.

The chair spun round to show a man who most definitely wasn't the familiar face Sherlock had grown to know. In this chair sat a younger man, jet black hair with a suit he clearly had tailored only last week. This man looked harsh, the lines of his face wrote tales of stress and the veins of his hands certified how over worked he had become.

"May I help you? Did you make an appointment to meet me? Martha said my next appointment was in twenty-" his voice was deep and rushed.

"Lestrade. Where is Lestrade?" Sherlock was anxious.

"Lestrade? Greg Lestrade? He left a while back, said he couldn't stay; gave no reasoning. Probably for the best anyway, he was never much use. He was constantly calling in some freak show instead of recruiting the police force that are paid and qualified to do the job." The stranger chuckled to himself and began tapping on his keyboard.

Sherlock immediately began to get agitated. If John was here he would have- John wasn't here. And he debated whether John would ever be there again, standing by his side, defending his name.

He composed himself. "I see. Well, if it's any consolation, the lakeside murder- it was the fisherman. Let me introduce myself." He walked over to the front of the desk and held his hand out to the man, to which he accepted. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, sociopath and freak show."

Leaving the stranger with a stricken face, Sherlock turned swiftly around and paced all the way to the road, ignoring any comments or confused faces. He remained calm, but inside his head, his mind was working faster than ever before. What could have possibly caused Lestrade to have left the job he had worked a long 4 years to get, without so much as a reason?

Hailing a taxi, which wasn't difficult as London was saturated with them, Sherlock went through all the possible explanations. There are thousands of reasons for someone to quit their job, but this was Greg Lestrade, not just anyone. That considered, there were still plenty of possibilities that could be related to him.

The taxi ride was spent thinking through the most logical ones. Was there another problem between him and his wife? His children? Had he gotten ill?

As the taxi turned onto the street of Lestrade's house, Sherlock considered the worst deduction. What if he was dead? He immediately began to dismiss the idea, but it left a nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

The taxi pulled up outside Lestrade's door. He had only been here once before, yet the house looked identical to how he remembered. Yet at a second glance, after paying the taxi driver, it was different. The trees had not been cut back in months, the hedges were overgrown and weeds were growing through the cracks in the pavement. This garden hadn't been tended to in over six months.

Knocking on the door, he was greeted by a tired looking woman. He had never met her in person before, but it was evident that this was Lestrade's wife. Her exhausted face immediately transformed to one of pure shock when she finally took in Sherlock's features.

"You're... You're... Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" She almost whispered, her voice shaken. She reached out a shaking hand and placed it on his shoulder, as though she wasn't sure he was actually standing there.

"Yes, that would be me. And as I recall, you must be Rachel?"

She nodded. "You better come inside." She opened the door wider and stepped back to let Sherlock walk in. "So, why now?"

Sherlock glanced over at her, but did not respond. They walked down the hall to the door of the living room. Rachel opened it while Sherlock stayed behind her.

"Greg, darling, I have someone here to see you. You were right." Rachel turned round to look at Sherlock before she smiled and walked down the hall.

Sherlock was nervous at first; Lestrade would be the first person he had purposely told about him being alive. But he soon shook off the nerves and walked into the room.

"Hello, Greg. It's lovely to see you again." Sherlock said, stood in the middle of the carpeted room with his hands behind his back.

Lestrade looked up, and it that split second, Sherlock could automatically deduce his past year. Saggy eyes – he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in months, clothes that had clearly not been changed in five days, leg veins that showed he hadn't been active for months either and a stubble beard – he hadn't shaved since the last time he changed his clothes. Bloodshot eyes hinted that he had been crying recently, yet had been having spells of spacing out and staring for long periods of time. To sum it all up, Greg Lestrade was a mess.

"It's been a year now, there is no need for more interviews and more idiots dressed up as Sherlock. Can you not see I'm tired of this-"Lestrade had risen from the couch and had squared up to Sherlock. When he got close enough, he suddenly stopped and just stared into his eyes. Like his wife, he put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He looked startled, and then he went completely blank.

"Sherlock. You're here, you're alive. But, but you were dead. I don't understand. I kept telling Rachel that you were alive, I almost knew it. But I kept seeing things, kept thinking I could see you, but I soon learnt I was going insane. I gave up, but I still had that feeling that you were there, somehow."

"Look, you're the first person who knows. Please don't say anything just yet. I have a plan, I have an order that I am telling people in. Please just don't tell a soul and ensure this doesn't go near the newspapers." Sherlock stayed emotionless, as ever.

"I won't tell a soul. But that isn't important right now. Just, how? How on earth did you do it?"

Sherlock smirked. "Maybe another day. Let's just say, I have a wider network of people who are willing to help."

Lestrade was confused, but obeyed the order of waiting to hear the full story. "But why did you do it?"

"Remember Moriarty? He had a plan to destroy me. And you all played along and began to doubt me. All he needed was for people to believe I was a fraud, and none of you were keen to stick up for me. The last piece of his puzzle - to see me die a disgrace. So that's what I did. But he had already blown his brains out, so I just had to fake it."

"Why fake it? If he was dead, what was the point?"

"He had three people that were set up to kill three people if I didn't jump, you, Mrs. Hudson and John. There was no way I was letting any of you die."

"Sherlock, you're telling me, you faked jumping off a building, to save us?"

Sherlock lightly smiled and turned to the window. "I suppose so, yes."

"Didn't think you had emotions!" Lestrade laughed. "You're a great man, Sherlock Holmes. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." He placed his hand firmly on Sherlock's shoulder.

As much as Sherlock denied it, Lestrade had always been a sort of father figure to him. In times of need, Sherlock could always turn to him for advice. Seeing Lestrade this way was pretty tough for him, but he had to keep strong.

"I have a question for you myself. I stopped by the station earlier, you quit your job. Why?"

Greg looked at the floor for a moment, and then composed himself. "I kept calling you every time there was a difficult case. I forgot you were dead, because to me, you never died; I wouldn't believe it. Soon, I began to think that if I hadn't considered what Donovan had said, you would still be alive. I truly believed it was me who caused you to commit suicide. I couldn't work knowing that, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't even eat. My work standard began to slip, so I quit. I couldn't let the force down. Nobody knows why I quit though, telling people that I caused you to die wouldn't sound good, and I didn't want people to know what I had done."

Sherlock pulled him into a friendly embrace. "I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I wish I could have returned sooner, but I had business to sort out first, or else I would have risked you all being murdered all over again, and a man can't keep faking suicide."

They broke off the hug, and Lestrade stood there, perplexed as to how Sherlock had changed. The Sherlock he knew barely spoke about any sort of emotion and most definitely wouldn't be acting like he cared for anything other than his work.

Sherlock shook his hand.

"I need to be somewhere; I apologize for cutting this conversation short. You don't know how happy I am to see you, no matter what state you are in. I'll be telling most people, so please keep this private until I have completed that, it would be appreciated."

"I'm just glad you're alive."

"Of course I'm alive." He said while reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone. "I really must go. I look forward to seeing you soon."

They walked towards the door silently. Rachel reappeared from the kitchen down the hall and smiled goodbye to Sherlock.

"See you soon, Sherlock." Lestrade shook his hand.

"Soon it shall be. I'm glad to see you and your wife are happy." Sherlock smiled, as he walked out of the door.

He walked down the front steps of the house and stood next to the pavement. He unlocked his phone; it was time to reply to a text he got 12 months ago.


	2. Chapter Two - Irene Adler

_**Chapter Two - Irene Adler**_

I know you're not dead. Let's have dinner.

Standing on the pavement outside of Lestrade's house, he decided this was the right time. Two people told in one day; like killing two birds with one stone. Reading the message once more, he began to write his reply.

Eleven miles away, Irene Adler was walking through her wardrobe, deciding what outfit she was to wear for her next customer. There was a lot of choice, but at the moment, she had trouble deciding. Silk was always the best and safest option.

She picked up a cerise silk robe and walked back out to her dressing room. Her phone sounded from its place on her pillow. She placed the robe over her chair and picked up the phone. Her password was the same as it had so long ago.

You're right. But I'm not hungry. I'll pick you up at seven. -SH

She had to reread the message twice. Irene wasn't surprised at all that he was alive, but inviting her to dinner? It was certainly not what she was expecting and completely out of character. This was what caused her to begin to wonder whether this was actually him.

Perhaps someone had faked this to lure her to them? There was no doubt that someone somewhere was plotting against her, which was inevitable. But faking to be Sherlock? Would someone stoop that low?

Irene walked out of the room to the landing at the top of the stairs. "Emily, are you there?" she called down.

Emily emerged from her coffee room, with a tray of teacups and a teapot. She looked up at Irene. "Yes, Miss Adler?"

"Cancel my next appointment. Tell him I'll make it up to him in the worst possible way."

"Yes, Miss Adler. Is there a reason for your cancellation?"

"Yes." Irene walked back to her room.

The last time Irene had seen Sherlock in person, he had saved her from being beheaded in Karachi. This was still such a vivid memory for her as it was a much unexpected surprise; Sherlock Holmes draped in black cotton, faking to be a terrorist.

In fact, the more she thought about it, the more unlikely it sounded that this text was from Sherlock. She had lost the game, let emotion get in the way and in the process, let him take her pulse. Why would he be trying to contact her now? The answer was that he wasn't. Irene couldn't fall for this; it was a ridiculous scam to try to get her to blindly walk into the path of what she suspected was assassins.

Irene spent the next few hours trying to ignore the thought of Sherlock. It was over a year ago, yet she couldn't deny, she had fallen for him. It was a complete mistake, acquiring feelings for a man you are supposed to be using is not a useful thing to do.

Although she did not seem like this type of girl, while Irene had no customers, she loved lying on the sofa in her television room with her favourite pyjamas on. Sometimes she did just enjoy escaping the dark world around her to watch how the lighter side lived. She found it funny how plain they lived, with no excitement besides maybe an oddly-shaped crisp. There was certainly no recreational scolding- which Irene found incredibly dull- and everyone was so ordinary.

The doorbell sounded downstairs. She heard Emily's heels making their way to the door. Emily was talking to someone over the intercom, but couldn't make out the words; she presumed it was her next customer who obviously hadn't gotten the cancellation.

"Miss Adler?" Emily called up.

Irene didn't really want to rise from the sofa, but she reluctantly got up and leaned over the landing banister.

"What is it, Emily?" Irene said, making sure Emily could tell she wasn't interested.

"Someone is here to see you. He says his name is-" she paused and waited for the visitor's reply. "Sherlock Holmes."

She was getting bored of this. "It's probably not him. What does he look like?"

"Uh, curly black hair, quite colourful eyes, long navy coat?"

Time seemed to stop. Was he actually here? Or was this what the visitor had told her to say? She leaned further over the banister to see Sherlock Holmes walk into her hallway. She quickly straightened up and contemplated her next move. The problem was, it was too late.

Sherlock came walking up the stairs and stopped when he reached the top.

"Miss Adler in pyjamas? Well, isn't this a treat." He said, smiling at her.

Irene was speechless. She opened her mouth twice to speak, but couldn't find the words. Sherlock noticed this.

"You didn't think I was coming, did you?"

"No."

Sherlock chuckled. "You should probably get ready. Don't try too hard, you don't need to, you look fine how you are to be honest, but I'm sure you don't want to go to a restaurant in pyjamas. Be quick, our reservation is in 10 minutes. I'll be downstairs." He announced, and walked back down the stairs, only stopping once at the bottom to look up- where he met Irene's gaze- and then continued to the lounge.

Irene was still puzzled as to what had just happened. Sherlock Holmes had arrived at her house and was taking her to dinner. Was this real life?

Whatever it was, she needed to get ready. She saw her cerise robe thrown over her chair, and picked it up on her way to the wardrobe. What to wear, what to wear? She settled for a black pencil dress. She took out her favourite pair of black shoes, and walked down the stairs and into the living room where Sherlock was sitting patiently.

As she walked into the room, Sherlock looked up at her and smiled. Irene smiled back at him.

"Shall we go?" he asked.

"I'm ready if you are."

Sherlock got up from the sofa and walked over to Irene. He placed his hand on the small of her back as he directed her out of the door. It was colder outside than she had thought and she soon began to shiver. Sherlock could feel how ice cold her skin was, even though she tried to hide it. He stopped on the pavement.

"Here," he said, taking off his coat and placing it round her, "you're freezing."

Irene pulled the jacket round her tightly. It wasn't the first time she had worn his coat, but last time, she hadn't been wearing much else.

They continued to walk in silence down the pavement towards the restaurant that Sherlock picked. It wasn't awkward silence, not at all; they were just taking in the scenery and relaxing.

The side of London they were walking in had high buildings, with many windows and ornate stonework. It was a dark night; the streets were only lit by the lights from inside the shops. The buildings were illuminated red, blue, green and it made the area come alive.

Finally, they reached a small restaurant on the corner of one of the many tall London buildings. Irene looked up and read the sign: 'The Ivy'. Sherlock walked up to the door and held it open for her as she walked inside. It was much warmer in here, so she removed his coat.

"Thank you." she passed the coat back to him and he draped it over his arm.

The lighting of the restaurant was a lightly dim orange colour, giving the place a very relaxing atmosphere. The tables were covered with pure white sheets and each had a candle set in the middle. The more she looked around, the more she was given the impression that Sherlock Holmes had just invited her on a date. This wasn't just dinner, no, it was more. Once again, she hated to admit it, but she was perfectly okay with going on a date with him. It's not like she hadn't thought of it before.

The maître d' invited them to sit at a small table Sherlock had reserved by the window. He allowed her to walk in front of him. Sat at the window, the view outside was of neon colours and couples walking together, smiling without a car. Irene looked over at Sherlock; he was looking out of the window. She took this chance to study him. He was wearing a dark purple shirt, one she had seen pictures of him in before, and a pair of black trousers. He had the same daft hair as he had before, it was perhaps a shade darker than she remembered, the same sharp cheekbones, that she had once threatened to slap, yet his eyes were different.

Of course, they were still the same rainbow of colours, but they looked tired; like he hadn't slept well for a while. What had been troubling him? She soon realised, he hadn't told everyone he was back yet. She had believed that she was the last person he told, but it was obvious that she was one of the first. But why? That was a different matter.

Irene looked up again, and saw that Sherlock had just watched her every move and he was slightly smirking. She blushed, and reached for the menu that had been placed in front of her. They ordered their food and Sherlock leaned forward.

"So tell me, how have you been? I haven't seen you in over a year."

How could she describe the past 14 months? They had been spent misbehaving and renewing her career as a dominatrix, she had gotten herself into at least two more deadly situations and thinking about Sherlock.

"I've been fine, just fine," she leaned forward herself. "Why are you telling me that you are alive before John?"

Sherlock went speechless and seemed to just completely stop. His eyes went blank as he stared at a spot just behind her. She didn't push him to answer; she continued to look at him with confused eyes. This question had made him think; think more than he usually did. Of course, his work used a lot of brainpower- it was extraordinary what he could do- but this was different. The answers that came to him during his work came easy to him, but thoughts concerning actual human emotions were much more troublesome and complex.

"I don't know." He answered, plain and simple, without moving his eyes. To be fair, he barely moved his mouth to say the words. He opened his mouth to speak again. "I can't tell him yet. There are a few people I haven't told yet; it's just you and Lestrade."

"Surely you would tell John first? He's the one that's hurting the most. Of course, we were all hurting, not that anyone considered me, but John was always the worst. You were his rock, and then you left him lost and alone." She blurted out, without even thinking.

She could tell she had made a bad decision when Sherlock went back to his blank face.

"Sherlock-"she started.

"Do excuse me." He said, getting up and walking towards the back of the restaurant, disregarding her attempt at an apology.

He had walked into the bathroom, and ten minutes later, had not returned. Irene contemplated whether he was still in there or whether he had left the restaurant. Either way, she did not enjoy sitting at the table alone.

Another fifteen minutes later, and his frame emerged from the door she had been watching. He had a slight stumble to his walk and his eyes were raw. She knew exactly what he had jus t done, but went against bringing up the fact that his eyes were still glazed by tears.

"Sorry about that," he said, sitting back down and replacing the napkin on his lap, "I had to take a phone call."

"Oh, sure sure, that's fine." She knew he was lying, but what was the point of bringing it up?

Half an hour and a starter course later, their main courses arrived. Halfway through, Irene began to wonder about something. How on earth did he survive?

"Sherlock-" once again, she was cut off.

"Don't ask the question. You know how I did it. Just think."

She thought to herself for a moment, she visualised the area, the street walk, the top of the building, the position of John...

"John couldn't see you land. You fell, you landed on something, you survived and a body, or yours, was placed in the blood." she blurted out. Sherlock smirked.

"You've been learning."

"I learnt from the best. But why-" she was interrupted again.

"Moriarty. Don't ask details, I'm not interested in giving them." he went back to staring out of the window.

It was evident that there was something about this whole ordeal that had really hit him; the feeling was unnatural and emotional, therefore he couldn't come to terms with it. She doubted he would ever properly open up about it.

They got to dessert without another dead-end conversation. It had honestly been a great evening, she was glad Sherlock was back. After the conversation earlier, things were going better, Sherlock was smiling and it was like it was all forgotten.

"So," she said, leaning closer to him over the table, "Is this going to happen again?"

Sherlock's head snapped up from where he had been looking at his dessert. He looked at her bewildered. He took a second to think about what had just happened and what he was going to say next.

"What do you- oh!" Sherlock looked surprised when the ends finally met inside his brain. He realised his mistake. "Irene, you know this wasn't a date, don't you? I don't date, I never have, I never will, I'm married to my work."

Irene leaned back. She had totally misread every sign tonight and had now made a complete fool of herself. Why had he gone to all this trouble then? What was the point of asking her?

"Irene, please speak. I'm sorry, I didn't realise."

She realised she hadn't spoken for at least five minutes. She shook her head.

"I just don't understand."

"Look, I'm sorry, truly. The thing is, I have other commitments-"

The bell above the restaurant door chimed. Sherlock's eyes locked on the figure that had just walked in. This was the worst timing and the worst person to walk through the door. He certainly hadn't been planning on seeing this person just yet.

Without him even realising, the figure was walking by the table. The figure stopped when it realised who was sat in the seat. They locked eyes.

"Oh."


	3. Chapter Three - Mycroft Holmes

_**Chapter Three – Mycroft Holmes**_

Sherlock stood up from the table and squared up to his brother.

"I don't think this is the time for a family reunion, do you?" Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft turned to look at Irene and then back to Sherlock. "Ah, I see what's going on here. I can't say I was expecting this. If anyone, I thought you would be with-"

"Mycroft, move along. I'm not really in the mood to have to talk to you."

"Well, isn't that a shame." he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He counted through a few notes and put them down on the table in front of Irene. "I do apologize, Sherlock has somewhere to be."

Sherlock picked up the notes and tried to hand them back to his brother. "You don't really believe you can just pay for this and that will make me want to join you."

Mycroft took the notes and placed them back where they were. "I don't believe that, not at all, but it is what is happening."

Sherlock was soon being forced out of the restaurant, without the chance to so much as say goodnight to Irene. Mycroft could be so demanding and stubborn and it agitated Sherlock, as he knew he wasn't much different.

The ride to Mycroft's club was silent and brief. Sherlock did not utter a word to his brother; instead he focused on the world outside his window. Nobody out there had any idea of what was happening; their lives were ever so simple in comparison. Yet, out there, out in the wide world, there were people who meant something to Sherlock. Yet those people did not know he was alive. He had told Lestrade, he was important, but why Irene? Why would he tell her before other people? She may have cared about him, but she wasn't as important to him; he had wasted valuable time.

There was even more silence while walking through the establishment, as this was apparently somewhere for silence. Sherlock found this dull, although, come to think of it, he found most things dull. They reached Mycroft's room and Sherlock took the seat in front of his oversized desk. Mycroft walked in behind him.

"How's John?" Mycroft enquired, walking round the desk and sitting down in the chair, placing his hands together.

"I don't-" Sherlock was cut off.

"I know you don't know, you're apparently too busy dining with Miss Adler."

"Give it a rest, Mycroft. I just wanted one night to relax."

"Ah, yes. I completely understand. Of course you would want a rest, I mean, it's not like your best friend faked his suicide and won't even tell him he's alive. When does John get a rest, Sherlock? When?" Mycroft was raising his voice.

"I'm going to tell him, Mycroft! It just wasn't tonight! Keep in mind; I've only been back for less than 24 hours."

"And you spent most of that time doing nothing and having dinner with Irene!" Mycroft had now stood up. It was plain to see he was angry at Sherlock.

"I was with Lestrade as well-"

"Sherlock Holmes, don't even bother. That's great that you have told Greg, I know you two are somewhat close, but did you even consider John?"

"I haven't stopped thinking about John, never once has he left my mind. But today was not the time to tell him. I can't handle the thought of how he is going to react." Sherlock's voice was cracking.

"Well you better hurry up-"

"I'm going to tell him, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. "Soon."

"It better be soon, you don't have much time. There is something I need to tell you, Sherlock." Mycroft had sat back down and his voice had slowed.

Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment and then his brain processed what was happening.

"What's happened to John, Mycroft?" Without realising it, Sherlock had shot up from the seat and was at Mycroft's desk.

"Sherlock, please sit." Mycroft said calmly.

"TELL ME!" Sherlock shouted.

"John is retraining for the army. He's going back." Mycroft was looking everywhere but at Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up from shouting over the desk. For the second time today, he focused on a spot on the wall and went blank. John was going to rejoin the army. He was going back to Afghanistan. John Watson, John Hamish Watson, would be leaving back to the warzone, but not the warzone where Sherlock could protect him.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned.

"I need to go." Sherlock blatantly said, walking to the door.

"Please tell him soon, if he goes to war, the only way he will come back is either injured or in a coffin. Please don't leave it too late, for your own sake." Mycroft was calm, yet stern.

"Thank you for telling me."

"Be careful out there."

Sherlock left the room and slowly made his way out to the street. John couldn't go back there, he just couldn't. He hailed a taxi and directed it to the only place he wanted to be right now.

Once again, the ride was spent in deep thought. Sherlock was by no means ready to see or talk to John right now, in fear of rejection; but he couldn't let him go. Mycroft's words had gotten to him; the only way John would come back would be if something bad happened to him. John was his only friend, his best friend, and he wouldn't let anything happen to him. But in the war, Sherlock could do nothing.

The taxi pulled up and Sherlock got out. Baker Street. It had been 12 whole months since he had been here, yet nothing looked different. He stood on the pavement opposite the door to 221b. He wasn't sure he was ready to go back.

Just when he was prepared to take the first step towards the door, it opened. Sherlock instantly tried to blend in with the crowd. It was Mrs. Hudson. She looked no older than before, yet three times as tired. She had been crying. She seemed to walk as fast as she could until she was out of sight. What had happened to her?

He walked towards the door. He could hear shouting and loud bangs. He quietly opened the door and slowly made his way up the stairs. It was John.

"WHY SHERLOCK? DID THIS MAKE YOU HAPPY? ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? DOES IT MAKE YOU HAPPIER SEEING ME THIS WAY?" John screamed from inside the apartment.

Another loud bang, then another, then another.

"YOU WON'T NEED THIS WILL YOU? NO OF COURSE NOT! OF COURSE YOU DON'T, BECAUSE YOU LEFT ME!" The piercing sound of glass shattering made Sherlock cover his ears. John had smashed all his science equipment.

Suddenly, all the noise stopped and all that could be heard was the sound of crying. John was crying. John was crying over Sherlock.

"Please, please Sherlock," his voice cracked, "please come back. I need you here. I really, really need you."

A loud sound came again. John was throwing all of Sherlock's books across the flat.

"DO YOU EVEN CARE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? WHERE ARE YOU, SHERLOCK, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?" Soon every book that was ever placed on the shelves was now on the floor of the opposite wall.

"Mycroft keeps calling me and visiting me. Did you order him to spy on me? Why would you do that? Why can't you just visit me yourself? WHY?"

A single bullet sounded. Sherlock feared the worst, but he soon realised John had shot the wall. John was a mess. Of course, Sherlock had expected him to be upset, but never did he expect this.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," John whispered through tears, "I'll sort this, I promise. I just need to leave, I need to leave now. I'll replace it all, I promise."

Sherlock could hear him pacing around the apartment. The door was slightly ajar. Sherlock took a chance to steal a look of what was happening. What he saw was probably the worst thing he could have.

Sherlock's desk was over turned and paper was scattered everywhere, the books were everywhere, the bookshelf lay in pieces, the chairs were broken and the fabric ripped. The glass from all of Sherlock's science equipment was everywhere. Yet he wasn't the slightest bit bothered about the flat right now.

John Watson, the brave army doctor, was sat in a bed of glass, facing the window, his hands covering his face and Sherlock's coat in his lap. He was crying heavily, but Sherlock knew that this had nothing to do with the glass that was cutting his flesh, but it was worse. Physical wounds meant nothing to John right now; it was the emotional pain that hurt more than anything imaginable. John had seen his best friends be shot in action, yet none of it compared to this.

Suddenly, John got up, wrapped Sherlock's coat around him and headed for the door. Sherlock had to throw himself into his bedroom to avoid being seen. John walked down the stairs and Sherlock took one last look at the broken man. He had more prominent lines marking his face, along with baggy eyes that were clearly bloodshot. His face has slight cuts here and there and tears streaked down to his chin. Sherlock was speechless, and not in a good way. For the first time, Sherlock saw the emotional damage that his suicide had caused John. It was worse than he could have even fathomed.

The door slammed downstairs and Sherlock walked into the destroyed room. He began to pick up the books and stack them neatly where the bookshelf had once been. He found a broom in the kitchen and began to tidy away all the glass and splintered wood. He moved his desk back to its usual position - luckily the desk hadn't been broken - and began to reorder all the paper from the floor.

While sorting through paper, Sherlock found a pile of letters he had never seen before. They were all addressed to him, but only by his name, which was written in John's distinctive handwriting. They were bound together by a single piece of string. He took out the first one and opened the envelope. It was a letter from John. Sherlock didn't fully read through it. He read the first line and then folded it back up.

'Sherlock, please don't be dead, for me, just don't do this. If you're truly dead, you know I won't be far behind.'

Sherlock placed the bunch of letters by the door and finished the cleaning of the flat. After another good hour, the flat was almost perfect. There were still permanent reminders of John's outburst, the broken chairs and the lack of a bookshelf, but this was the best he could do.

He picked up the letters and ran out of the flat. It was late, really late. He began to walk down the street to try to forget what he had just witnessed, but it was impossible, completely impossible. The John Sherlock knew was gone, and it was his entire fault; he had destroyed John's life.

Before he knew it, mainly because he had absolutely no focus on the world around him, Sherlock was stood outside the door to the house that Mycroft had arranged for him to stay in. The house suddenly felt less and less like his home. This wasn't home, not at all. For once, Sherlock felt that he needed to sleep. Sleeping was the only way to stop thinking about this for as many hours as possible. He dragged himself up the stairs and placed the letters on his bedside table. He fell onto the bed and fell asleep fully clothed.

He woke up to the sun shining brightly into his eyes. What was he to do today? Was he to see John? How desperately he wanted to, but he couldn't bring himself to see him. There was one person he still needed to see, before John. At least if he saw this person now, it would give him someone to go to when everything fell apart with John.

He jumped up from bed and got ready for another day of feeling like he would be better off dead. He quickly grabbed a slice of toast and walked out the door. Once again, a taxi wasn't difficult to find.

"Where are you heading?" The taxi driver called to Sherlock.


	4. Chapter Four - Molly Hooper

_**Chapter Four - Molly Hooper**_

Molly opened up the top drawer of her desk. Sherlock's scarf still lay there. She hadn't cleaned it, it was a terrible reminder of him, but the scarf still smelt of his cologne. Sometimes, she thought she could still hear him working and hear his random mumblings. She thought she had seen him a few times too. People called her insane, but she knew what she had seen. Yet, here she was, sat alone in the mortuary, cradling the proof that he was dead. Through the circular windows of the mortuary doors, Sherlock watched Molly. It hurt him to see her this way, so vulnerable.

He remember the last time he had seen her, properly seen her. It was the night before his fake suicide. He had shown up at the hospital without her knowing and told her how much he needed her. She thought that he wanted her to help him with something, and in a way, she did. All Sherlock wanted before the next day was to feel love, or at least what he imagined to be love.

_"Molly, I think I'm going to die." Sherlock said, surprised that even he admitted it. _

_Molly looked into Sherlock's eyes and she could see he was genuinely afraid._

_"What do you need?" she said hesitantly._

_"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"_

_Molly was confused. What was happening to him? Who was doing this to him? It wasn't even a question; Molly had already told him that no matter what, he could rely on her. She would help him through anything._

_"What do you need?"_

_Sherlock took a step closer, closing the gap between them. Sherlock looked down at her and Molly couldn't resist eye contact._

_"You."_

_At first Molly sort of froze, he wanted her? What did he mean? The more she quickly processed it, she realised that he wanted her help with something. He didn't actually want her, he wanted her knowledge._

_"What case do you need help on? Do you need to see a body?" Molly questioned._

_Sherlock breathed in deeply and placed one of his hands around Molly's. She was slightly shaking. Instead of answering her question, he walked her over the floor between the work benches of the lab._

_"Molly, I need you to sit with me. I need to know that I felt some form of love before.. if I die. I can't die knowing that no one loved me, and I never loved anyone. Molly, please. Just sit with me. Talk with me. Keep me warm. Love me."_

_They spent the next few hours together. They sat close together, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder and her hands on his chest. It was totally new for Sherlock, but he enjoyed it, it was weirdly comforting to be sat there so close to Molly, ignoring the cruel world around them._

_Molly knew that Sherlock would not want to talk about whatever was going to kill him, so she ensured that the conversation stayed light-hearted. They spoke about everything and nothing. It was almost like they both forgot that this could be the last time they would ever see each other._

_Sherlock was slowly realising what he had been feeling for Molly. It wasn't hate, although he already knew that, he just didn't know what the emotion of love was. But the more the night went on, the more he realised, this was it. This was what love felt like, and he was glad he had found it sat here with her._

_It got so strong that he wanted to tell her; he needed to tell her, and he had found the courage to, somehow._

_"Molly, I need you to know that I-"_

_But his courage proven worthless. John had text him at that precise moment to say that he was in the lift on his way to the lab. Molly couldn't stay here if John was here, it wouldn't be the same; it wouldn't be the way Sherlock wanted to say goodbye to her._

_He took her hand and walked with her to the other door of the lab._

_"Molly Hooper, I need you to know that no matter how long it takes, no matter where you are, I will come back to you. I won't let this be the final time I see you. I promise I will be back for you, I promise."_

_He kissed her cheek and let go of her hand. She had tears in her eyes, these were the eyes he would be left remembering, and she turned around and walked out of the doors. A few seconds later, John walked into the lab._

_"Sherlock, what have you done now? Why did Molly leave here crying? What did you say to her?" John asked, sounding concerned._

_"We need to access the database the way Jim did and get rid of Richard Brook." Sherlock said, completely ignoring his questions._

Looking at her now, seeing her still caring about him, made him remember every single feeling he felt that night; it was love. But it was time to go back to her. He waited till she was facing the other way before silently opening the door and stepping in.

"I promised you I would come back for you." He said, with a light smile on his face.

Molly's head looked up and she spun round in her chair. She looked shocked at first, like she processing whether he was really there, or if she was hallucinating all over again. Once she realised he was actually there, her face suddenly brightened and she ran over to him. She threw her arms around him and he lifted her into a much-awaited embrace.

"Molly, I never got to tell you, because John text me." he lowered her back to the ground and held onto her hands. "I wouldn't have been able to face that day if I hadn't spent that night with you. You made me feel love for the first time. And I can safely say, after thinking about it for so long; I love you, Molly Hooper."

"You know that-" Molly started.

"Molly, I don't do relationships. I never have. But for you, if you help me, I will try. You taught me how to love, just one more favour, I need you to help me to be who you want. I will try for you." Sherlock never once broke eye contact with her.

"I don't need to help you be who I want. I've felt this way about you for three years, throughout everything that has happened, and you are still who I want."

"I know I am a useless cause, but I swear to you, Molly, I will spend every day I have on this Earth keeping you safe. I won't let anyone hurt you. Knowing myself, I will hurt you at some point, hell, I'll probably be the worst person, but please, please stick by me. I will never intentionally hurt you, ever. I am nothing without you."

Molly stayed silent; she was constantly opening her mouth to talk, but she seemed to not be able to put words together.

"May I try something?" he asks her softly.

"Yes." she simply said.

Sherlock moved his hands and placed them around her waist. He looked her in the eyes to see her looking right in his, and he slowly leaned in. Molly closed her eyes as Sherlock pressed his lips against hers and pulled away again. She smiled at him in a way that made his mind race.

"I still can't believe this is happening." Molly said, still cutely smiling.

"Why not? I told you I would be back for you, I love you."

"I just, I expected you to have forgotten all about that night and me while you were gone for so long." She said, shaking her head at the ground.

Sherlock lifted a hand and placed it under her chin. He slowly lifted her head to meet her eyes.

"How could I ever forget you?" he smiled.

His phone sounded from the inside of his coat. He rolled his eyes and took it out, only to find it was a text from his brother.

_How's John? -MH_

Sherlock sighed. There was no chance that he was going to get any peace from Mycroft until he had spoken to John. Could he not understand that it wasn't the right time?

"Is something wrong?" Molly mumbled, fiddling with her hands.

"No no, just Mycroft. He's desperate for me to talk to John."

"You.. you haven't told John you're alive?" she stammered.

"Not yet."

"Why wouldn't you tell him first? Who else have you told?"

"Lestrade."

"That's all?"

"Yes." he sternly assured her.

"You need to talk to John, Sherlock. I can't even imagine what he must be like."

"I can." Sherlock whispered.

"You two were so close and you worked so well together! And you were such good friends-"

"Yes, Molly, I know."

Sherlock turned away from her and began pacing up and down the room. He didn't need to know anything more about him and John; he knew how close they were, he knew that John was his only friend. But why couldn't people understand that he wasn't ready to see him, especially after seeing him last night? He couldn't face the idea of John rejecting him and not wanting anything to do with him anymore. Last night, yes, John was hurt, but he was angry. But if not telling him now? Who did he have to tell? He had already told everyone worth telling, with the exception of Irene.

An idea sprung to his mind. He turned round, walked to Molly and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Molly, I need you to help me with something."

"What is it?"

"I'll talk to you in the taxi. Right now, we need to get going. Are you okay to go now?"

"Uh, yeah, yes, I suppose." She said, removing her white lab coat and throwing it over the chair. She picked up her small bag from the desk. "Let's go."

They began walking together down the corridors of the hospital. Molly felt Sherlock's hand touching hers, and soon realised he had interlocked his fingers with hers; they were walking together holding hands. On the pavement outside of the hospital, they climbed into a parked taxi.

"Where can I take you?" the driver asked through the small gap in the glass divider.

"5, Courtmead Close, Burbage Road." Sherlock said. "Where are we going?" Molly questioned. "Molly, there's someone I need to see, and I can't do it without you." 


	5. Chapter Five - Holmes and Hudson

Chapter Five - _Holmes & Hudson_

"We're here." Sherlock stated, as the taxi came to a stop outside of one of many houses of the street. There were two small cars parked outside of the door.

Molly looked outside the taxi window. It looked like an average house, it didn't look like it could be the house of anyone dangerous, yet what judgement did she have to go on? Moriarty's house had looked completely normal, and she didn't have a clue of what he was really like.

Sherlock got out and held his hand out to help Molly get out. He paid the driver and turned round to face the house. He stared for a while at the front door, before taking Molly's hand and walking up to the front door. His hand lingered on the door, as though he was debating whether or not to knock. Eventually, he took a deep breath and knocked.

They waited a minute before the distinct sound of footsteps could be heard walking towards the door. It opened to reveal a lady not much older than Molly's mother. She had dark hair that was fading to grey and she had the same bright eyes as Sherlock. She looked at Sherlock with a face of pure shock.

"Sher, Sherlock?" she said, mumbling her words.

"Who is it?" called another voice, coming from somewhere inside the house.

"Hello." Sherlock answered.

Before another word was said, the woman had flung herself at Sherlock and had her arms locked around him, and he didn't hesitate to hold her close either. At this point, Molly was beyond confused. The hug lasted a lot longer than a normal one, until the older woman began to pull away.

"You look more and more like your father every time I see you..." she whispered.

"Please." Sherlock interrupted.

Mrs. Holmes turned to look at Molly. "And who is this?" she said, smiling at her.

"Mother, this is Molly." he responded.

Molly looked at Sherlock; he had taken her to see his mother.

"Hello there, Molly dear." his mother said while embracing Molly.

"Mrs. Holmes, hi." Molly managed to say, although she was overwhelmed at what had just occurred.

"Please, call me Patricia. You must be Sherlock's girlfriend?"

"Uh..." she managed to stammer, not knowing how to answer this question.

"Yes, mother, this is my girlfriend." Sherlock added to Molly's lack of words. "Don't look so surprised!" he joked when he saw the look on his mother's face.

Molly was just as speechless as Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock had just announced her as his girlfriend, how was he supposed to react? Mrs. Hudson was pleasantly surprised; never did she expect him to ever get a girlfriend, let alone a friend, knowing how tactless he could be.

"Sorry dear, I suppose I just wasn't expecting this. The first time I've seen you in 6 years, and you turn up with a girlfriend? It's all a bit too much at once. Do you want to come in? You don't have to, I mean, only if you want." Mrs. Hudson was clearly anxious, she hadn't seen him in so long, and didn't know whether he was planning to be back involved with her.

"I would love to," he turned to Molly. "Do you want to?"

"Sure, of course!" Molly beamed.

"That's good, I believe someone is here that would like to see you too." Mrs. Holmes said, walking back into the house, heading for the living room.

Instantly, Sherlock froze. Was... was John here? He wouldn't be. No. John wouldn't come to his mother's house, would he? Sherlock knew that John was obviously desperate to know he was live, but why would he turn to Sherlock's mother?

"Patricia, who is it?" the voice called again from the living room. Sherlock recognized this voice; and it wasn't the one he was expecting.

Mrs. Holmes entered the room first, with a beaming smile. Sherlock entered next, hand in hand with Molly, and they all turned to face the woman on the couch.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, getting up and hugging him the same way his mother had only minutes earlier. Sherlock removed his hand from Molly's and embraced her back.

"It's nice to see you." Sherlock muttered at a barely audible volume, but they all still heard it.

When they parted, Mrs. Hudson had the same beaming face as his mother. Mrs. Hudson turned to look at Molly.

"Molly, you're here too? I can't say I wasn't expecting this, I had always thought you two made such a beautiful couple." she said, with a slight smirk at Sherlock, before hugging Molly as well.

"Shall I make tea?" Sherlock asked the room.

"Molly, what have you done to him? The Sherlock I know would never make tea!" Mrs. Hudson laughed.

"To be honest, even I don't know where this man has come from." Molly replied, placing her hand on Sherlock's back.

Sherlock looked down but it was obvious he was smiling. He looked back up and walked through to the kitchen. He filled up the kettle and began to take mugs out of the cupboard. He still knew where everything was.

"Molly, please sit." Patricia said, pointing to the sofa.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hol- Patricia." Molly smiled, taking her place.

"So, you have to tell us everything, when did all this begin?" Mrs. Hudson asked, signalling that she meant Sherlock by nodding her head towards the kitchen.

"Um... Well, it sort of started this morning..." Molly started.

"This morning? And he has already brought you here? Well, he must be serious!" Patricia laughed.

"He only came back yesterday." Molly stated.

"Came back? Was he on holiday somewhere?"

"You, you didn't know?"

"Know what dear?" Patricia was confused.

That was when Sherlock walked back into the room with a tray of four mugs. He passed them out to everyone, and then sat down next to Molly. Everyone in the room looked confused, and Sherlock looked round at them in his own state of confusion.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, of course." Mrs. Hudson answered him, while looking suspiciously at Molly and Patricia.

"What didn't I know?" Patricia asked again, looking more concerned.

"That's what I came here to tell you," Mrs. Hudson began, placing her mug back on the table. "I knew that you didn't read the papers. That's why I have been round so much more than usual."

"What's happened, Sherlock? What have you done?"

"Mother, a year ago, I had to, well, fake my own suicide. I jumped of a building to save the lives of three of the people closest to me. I couldn't tell anyone that I was alive; I couldn't risk Moriarty's sniper men knowing it was fake, and shooting them. Only three days ago I sorted everything, and now I'm telling everyone." Sherlock explained, taking Molly's hand and slightly squeezing it when he saw her face sadden.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Patricia. That's what I was about to discuss with you, and then all of this happened, even I didn't know he was alive." Mrs. Hudson apologized.

"You waited a whole year to tell me? Was... Was there a funeral?" Patricia questioned.

"Sort of." Sherlock answered.

"Sort of?"

"It wasn't anything big." Sherlock assured her.

"How would you even know?"

"Mother, I was there."

"Oh, yeah." Patricia chuckled.

They spent another few hours just discussing Sherlock's past year away, Molly's job and what Mrs. Holmes had been doing since Sherlock discontinued contact with her. Before they knew it, it was beginning to get dark outside. Mrs. Hudson looked at her watch.

"I can't believe how fast today has gone! You all better get home, don't let me keep you!" Patricia said, standing up.

"It's been great seeing you, Mrs. Holmes." Molly smiled as she too got up, dragging Sherlock up behind her.

"You too dear."

All of them began to move their way towards the front door and said their goodbyes.

"Molly, do you mind just staying back for a minute?" Patricia politely asked her.

"Uh..." She turned to look at Sherlock, who was already outside and looking for a taxi. "Sure, what can I help you with?"

"I just wanted to thank you. I know you and Sherlock have only been together since this morning, but Mrs. Hudson has been a dear friend of mine, and she is always telling me about what's going on with Sherlock. She spoke about you before, about the way you two were with each other. I think you've changed my son for the better, somehow. I never expected him to have a girlfriend, and if he did, I was expecting someone just a frustrating as he is. But you are so lovely, and I really hope everything goes well with you two. Thank you for putting up with my son, I can see he loves you." Patricia said, almost teary-eyed.

Molly on the other hand, definitely was teary-eyed. "Oh, thank you, that's really sweet of you, really, really sweet. I'll look after him, I promise. I hope I get to meet you again sometime!"

"I'm very sure you will see me again, Sherlock would be an idiot to lose you."

They shared a hug and Molly went to join Sherlock on the pavement. They got into the taxi that was waiting, and waved to Patricia and Mrs. Holmes who were waving at them from the doorway.

"To the address I told you, please." Sherlock turned to Molly. "What was that all about?" he questioned her.

"What was what?"

"My mother called you back, is she okay? Are you okay?" he was sounding more concerned.

"Oh, that! No worries, it was just a little chat, nothing serious."

"As long as you're both okay." He took her hand again, but didn't acknowledge he had done so.

After a long pause, Molly asked the question she had been waiting to ask.

"Sherlock, do you plan on seeing your mother again?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you did go 6 years without contacting her."

"Because I was upset. I was terribly wrong to have ignored her, but I wasn't in the right frame of mind to talk to anyone. That's when I became absorbed in my work." he stated, not once making eye contact with her, instead he stared out of the window.

"What upset you?"

Sherlock stayed silent until the taxi pulled up outside of his house.

"Oh look, we're here." he pointed out, getting out of the taxi, paying the driver and walking into the house before Molly had even undone her seatbelt.

When she finally walked into Sherlock's house, she found him sat in a large arm chair, staring at the wall.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't realise it was so personal-"

"My father died." Sherlock mumbled.

Molly took a minute or so to process what he had said, and to think of a response. She soon realised she had nothing to say that would help. Instead, she went over to the chair and sat on the arm. She saw the hurt in his eyes. Sherlock looked over at her and pulled her from the arm of the chair and sideways onto his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder. They sat like this for what felt like hours.

"Molly, do you need to go home tonight, or are you going to stay?" Sherlock asked her.

When he turned his head slightly to look at her, he saw that she was fast asleep and quietly snoring. He smiled and rested his head against hers. Very soon, he was asleep himself.

As the sun began to rise, the room began to lighten. Molly woke up first, rubbing her eyes while they adjusted to the brightness of the room. She noticed she was still wearing her clothes for the day before, and looked over to see Sherlock still asleep. She smiled; they had ended up sleeping curled up together on the chair. She probably should have gone home last night, but if she had to sleep anywhere, she was glad it was next to him.

A sudden thought dwelled on her. She was supposed to be at work. She tried to get up as slowly as she could, but as soon as she moved the slightest; Sherlock's eyes began to flicker. She smiled at him while he fully awoke.

"Morning." he said, in a husky morning voice.

"Good morning, sorry for waking you."

"Its okay, its fine." he started to sit up. "So you stayed here then?"

"I guess I feel asleep." she giggled, while beginning to get up from the chair. "I need to go to work."

Sherlock took hold of her arm as she stood up. "No you don't, you can call in sick, can't you?"

"Well there's this body I'm supposed to be examining today, I keep putting it off, but I-"

Sherlock was stood right next to her, looking right into her eyes. "Please?"

That was more than enough to convince her. She called the hospital and told them she was ill, but they wanted a full explanation. Sherlock followed Molly as she walked round the room talking, and at least five times he wanted to take the phone from her to talk to the hospital himself. But every time he reached out, Molly would turn around to keep the phone away from him. He could very easily have taken the phone from her, but it was cute to watch her try and avoid him.

"So what do you want to do today?" Sherlock asked her, once she finally ended the phone conversation.

"I have no idea, I was all set to do post-mortems, so all the plans are on you now!" she laughed.

"Alright, alright, well, we need to go to your place if you want to get new clothes?"

"You want to leave the house?"

"You're right. Two seconds." Sherlock said, walking to his bedroom on the first floor. He changed into his pyjamas and grabbed one of his biggest shirts.

He walked back down to the living room where Molly was stood by the window, looking at the view of the small park and blossoming trees. She turned around when she heard Sherlock walk into the room. He held up the shirt and Molly nodded, walking over and taking it from him and then moving on to the bathroom. She came out two minutes later, dressed in Sherlock's massive shirt and her clothes folded in her arms. Molly placed them next to her bag in the living room and sat next to Sherlock on the sofa. Why hadn't they just slept on the sofa instead of the chair?

"If you want to watch a movie, I have a whole collection- wow." Sherlock turned round to see Molly stood there, draped in his shirt. "Sorry, um, you just look really good in that shirt. I think I have a new favourite shirt. I'm definitely glad you stayed. I was saying all my DVDs are on the bookshelf over there." He said, pointing to the corner of the room.

Molly walked to the bookshelf and Sherlock couldn't help but stare. Molly saw him looking and started to giggle to herself. He lay on the sofa, waiting for her to pick a movie. She chose one and walked over to the DVD player. Molly placed the disk in the player and sat next to Sherlock. She selected the right source and the title screen came up. Sherlock recognized the music. His head turned to look at the screen. It was John's favourite movie.

"Change it." he demanded.

"What?" Molly looked confused.

"I said change it!" he shouted.

"What's wrong with this movie? It's one of my favourites actually-"

She was cut off by Sherlock jumping up from the sofa and ripping the disk out of the player. He snapped it in half and threw it at the opposite wall. His body was tensed and his breathing was getting faster and faster. His hands were balled into fists, slowly turning pasty white.

"I SAID TO CHANGE IT!" he bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the whole house.


	6. Chapter Six - Nostalgic Insanity

Chapter Six -_**Nostalgic Insanity**_

Molly Hooper had been afraid of many things in her life. She had a major phobia of spiders, pretty much all insects scared her, she didn't like the dark and clowns terrified her. But Sherlock Holmes had never been anything to be afraid of. Now she wasn't so sure.

"Molly, I..." Sherlock began, shaking his head in his own disappointment.

Molly stood motionless and didn't speak a word. She had almost forgotten how to.

"I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry. I don't know what just came over me."

He took a step towards her and she quickly turned around and ran to the bathroom, locking herself inside. Sherlock walked after her and leant against the door.

"Please, Molly." he pleaded. "Just open the door."

He got no reply. Sherlock could hear her quiet sobbing and mumbling whispers and he slid down the door to sit on the ground in front of it, his head in his hands. Ten minutes of pleading later, the door opened behind him, making him immediately stand up to face Molly.

"If you want to leave, you can..." He mumbled. "I just don't want you to have to stay in there. I promise that what you just saw is not who I am." Sherlock stood back to allow her to get past.

"I'm going to go now." She said, before turning to walk to the living room. "I'm going to change into my clothes first."

Molly returned with her bag and locked herself in the bathroom again. Sherlock stood back and sat on the stairs, waiting for her to finish.

Molly emerged from the bathroom, but not in the way that Sherlock had been expecting. She was wearing a crystal white pencil dress, a pair of white stilettos and deep red lipstick. Sherlock took a minute before he fully perceived that it was Molly stood there.

"Well, I'll see you soon, Sherlock." She smiled, her shoes sounding against the wooden floor as Molly walked towards the door and stepped out.

Sherlock stood there in confusion for a minute or two. If he hadn't have seen Molly walk into that bathroom, he would have thought it was Irene Adler who had walked out.

"Phase One complete." Molly said into her earpiece. "I'm coming to you now." Molly got into the black car parked outside Sherlock's door.

Sherlock heard the starting of the engine and he walked to the window to see the car driving away. He immediately remembered the cars of Moriarty's men; the ones he had become so accustomed to during the past few years, and he knew he had to take action. He ran upstairs to retrieve his gun from under the bed and burst out if the door, hoping for some sign of the direction they had driven in. He turned left, for that was the way the car had been facing, but then where? Sherlock had already discovered all of their hideouts and safe houses and had destroyed all of them, along with the men who were harboured there. So now, what was happening now? Sherlock came to the worst realisation: there were more, the game wasn't over.

His breathing quickened as he began to get more and more distressed. They had Molly. She was in mortal danger, and he was stood there with not a single clue as to what to do. Sherlock bit his lip hard as he spun round, asking people if they had seen the car. This was useless; he had no information, because from what he believed, there were no more of the men.

Lestrade. He had to go to Lestrade. Sure, he no longer worked with the police, but if anyone could assist him to the head of police faster, it would be Greg.

He got out his phone and called Lestrade's number. Luckily, the call was answered within seconds.

"Sherlock! How are you doing?" Lestrade greeted him.

"Lestrade, I need you to get me talking to someone of high authority at Scotland Yard, preferably within half an hour. Can you do that for me?"

"Uh, I don't work there anymore, Sherlock. It won't be easy-"

"Please, Greg. They have Molly." Sherlock interrupted, pleading.

"Molly? Who has Molly?"

"People working for Moriarty, they're back. They aren't all gone. I thought they were, but I was wrong."

"I'll meet you at Scotland Yard in 15 minutes, can you do that?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, ending the call.

He looked around for a cab, but the street appeared to be having a lack of them. Sherlock paced up the street, until finally one arrived, and he got into the back before the car had even fully stopped.

On arrival, Sherlock found Lestrade stood outside anxiously. He got out a handful of coins and notes from his pocket and practically threw them into the front of the cab. Sherlock walked up to Greg, merely nodding in his direction to acknowledge him, before he walked straight through the doors into the building. He turned around the face Lestrade.

"Have you spoken to them yet?" Sherlock rushed.

"I've spoken to Donovan. She says that she will arrange a meeting for you. She was certainly surprised to find you coming to the police, instead of the other way round. She was more surprised to hear that you were alive, too." He chuckled.

"I didn't ask for a commentary." He snapped. "Why is this taking so long?"

"Sherlock, we've been here for two minutes, calm down."

"That's two more minutes that Molly is in danger." Sherlock glared.

"Well, well, well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." the voice came from somewhere behind him.

He turned round to see Sally Donovan stood there, a slight smirk on her face.

"Miss. Donovan, a pleasure as always. Have you arranged my meeting with someone of a higher authority?"

"Right this way. I see you haven't dropped your superiority complex."

Sherlock stayed silent as he followed her through the hallways up to the door of an office at the end of a corridor.

"In here." She said, knocking on the door.

A voice from the office called for him to come in, and Sally walked away as he opened the door.

"Hello." Sherlock greeted him, walking inside and shutting the door behind him. He took a seat in front of the man's desk.

"Sebastian Moran." The man replied, shaking Sherlock's hand. "And I am led to believe that you are Sherlock Holmes?"

"That would be me. Now, I need the assistance of your team. A very important person has been taken by people I know are dangerous."

"And how do you know she was taken by these people?"

"She was in a car, a car that is identical to one of a group of people I know are dangerous."

"Have you tried calling her?"

"Calling her?" He looked puzzled. "I... no, I didn't try calling her."

"Would you like to try that?"

Sherlock removed his phone from his pocket, dialling Molly's number. It answered on the third ring.

"Molly? Are you there?"

He heard her sigh. "Yes, Sherlock. What do you want?"

"Where are you?" He asked sternly.

"At my flat. Please don't think about coming over, I need some time to relax."

Sherlock's face dropped. He had gotten it wrong. Molly had simply gotten in a cab. But he was almost sure that it was the same car! Were his eyes deceiving him again?

"Alright." He muttered, ending the call.

"So?" Moran asked.

"She- she's at her flat."

"At least you know she's safe." Sebastian smiled sympathetically.

"I need you to get Greg Lestrade his job back." Sherlock ordered.

"Mr. Holmes, Detective Lestrade quit on his own terms, I can't possibly force him back onto the team-"

"He wants his job back. He needs his job back."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Have you got any means of contacting him?"

"Call Donovan. Lestrade is in the lobby. She can send him up."

Moran hesitated for a minute before dialling a number and picking up the receiver.

It hardly took 5 minutes until there was a knock on the door, and Lestrade walked in.

"You asked to see me?"

"Yes, I've been informed to give you your job back."

Greg looked shocked, and took a few more steps into the room.

"You... you would give me my job back?"

"I've been recommended to."

Sherlock and Lestrade made eye contact and shared a smile that let Lestrade know exactly who had made such a recommendation.

"I will gladly accept. Thank you, thank you so much. I won't let you down again."

"I'm sure there is no way you can let me down more than the man we have now. Absolutely useless; I doubt he has even looked at any paperwork since he was promoted."

"No need to doubt, you are correct." Sherlock interrupted, receiving a couple of confused faces. "I had a run in with him when looking for you, Lestrade. Not a very pleasant man. Could definitely be replaced."

Sebastian smiled. "Well, I guess this is the best opportunity. Lestrade, I expect to see you here on Monday morning?"

"I just have one request." Sherlock interrupted.

"Go ahead."

"Please let me work with Lestrade. I need to exercise my brain. That is, if you will let me?" he asked Greg.

"I couldn't work without you." Lestrade answered.

They made small talk for a short while, until Sebastian announced that he needed to get back to work, so Sherlock and Greg left.

"Thank you." Lestrade said out of the blue, halfway down the corridor.

"For what?"

"Getting me back my job."

"It was nothing really."

"You miss it, don't you? You miss the work."

"More than you will ever fathom, Lestrade." Sherlock said, with a slight chuckle to his voice.

They reached the outside of the building and said goodbye to each other. Lestrade walked to his car that was parked in the parking lot, and Sherlock hailed a taxi.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. Where did he want to go? The obvious choice was to go back to his house, watch a movie or two, read a book, or write some music. But obvious choices weren't always the best ones. Sometimes you have to go with your gut instinct, instead of the choice you feel is the most sensible.

"Baker Street, 221b Baker Street." He replied confidently.

Throughout the drive, Sherlock had to think about what he was going to find there. Would the flat be in the mess it had been after John's outburst? Or would it be as he left it, tidy and moderately clean? He thought about it; there was a large chance that it was going to be destroyed once more- if John had gone back. Which made another question arise: would John be there? Last time Sherlock had tried to visit the old apartment; he had had to hide in the hallway. But it would be too coincidental for John to be there again. During the time they knew each other, yes, they had began to do things almost in sync, but that had probably worn off my now.

"Here we are."

The driver's words broke Sherlock's train of thought. He paid the man and walked up to the door, the door he still knew so well. Reaching into a coat pocket, he retrieved the key and unlocked the door. He opened the door and stepped in.

The place looked no different to how he had seen it last, there was no sign of damage nor could he see any marks that would determine whether John was here. He slowly walked up the stairs, stepping lightly to keep as quiet as possible. The flat's door was ajar, giving him a peek at the condition it was in. The flat was tidy, just as he had left it, almost like nobody had been inside since he had only two days before. He walked inside to find that the only difference was a single envelope, addressed to him in John's handwriting. He took a deep breath to prepare himself, before he slid a finger under the seal and pulled out the paper inside.

_**Dear Sherlock,**_  
_**I know you've been here. There is no way Mrs. Hudson could know the order you keep your books in.**_  
_**I like I think that you're alive and came looking for me here, saw the mess and cleared up. I know you didn't, you couldn't have, but it's a comforting thought.**_  
_**Mrs Hudson has already taken the rest of your letters, I did wonder how long it would take her, so I don't expect you to get to read this either.**_  
_**I'm writing to you because I'm nervous, and you're still the only person I can turn to. I'm still training at the moment, I think it's ridiculous that I have to retrain, and I am finally being sent to Afghanistan next month. I can't believe how soon it has come. I'm so scared, Sherlock, I'm so so scared. This is a war you can't save me from**_

Sherlock slammed the letter onto the desk before it was finished. He stretched his arms out to hold him up as he leaned over the desk, eyes fixed on John's words.

"I didn't get the shopping." John called, walking into the flat. "I had a fight with the self-service machine again."

Sherlock's head snapped into the direction of the voice, but no one was there. He ran through to the bedrooms, downstairs, but there was no one. He shook his head and walked back up into the living room.

"Sherlock, there's a head in the fridge. An actual human head."

Sherlock turned to look at the kitchen. No one.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and he spun round to face the empty room.

"Stop it." Sherlock growled. "Stop whatever this is."

"Stop what?" John said.

Sherlock turned back around to see John stood there, looking concerned.

"John." Sherlock gasped.

John's figure began to fade, until he was gone. Sherlock scoured the whole room, to see where his friend had gone.

"Sherlock!"

He heard the shout of his name from outside the window, and he ran over to it, seeing John looking up.

"Sherlock."

A whisper came from behind him, so he turned round, but no one was there. He went back to looking out the window, but John was not there..

He held his head with his hands.

"What's going on... What's happening?" He asked, hearing footsteps behind him.

"It's all inside your head, Sherlock."

"GET OUT! GO!" He screamed, his voice so loud, it was audible down on the street.

There was silence. It was like time had been paralysed. No footsteps. No voice. No hallucination. He stood staring at the wall, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock." He heard a whisper, and hand placed on his shoulder.

He gulped and froze, before he turned round slowly, to a significant amount of nothing. His body tensed as tears of anger and fear ran freely down his stricken face. He fell to the floor, plotting his next move. He was going insane. The thought of John had driven into full insanity.

Sherlock reached limply for the letter, the proof that John had been here. This time, he read it all. Most of it was emotion, which Sherlock mainly skim read, the only part of the letter that meant something significant was that Mycroft was not lying. John was training, and in a month, he would be gone. Mycroft had explained the only terms which allowed John to leave after he had gone; and neither of them appealed to Sherlock.

Sherlock folded the letter back up, placing it in his coat pocket. He stood up, taking one last look around the flat that he loved so dearly, and then walked out into Baker Street. He took out his phone.

_John, please come to Baker Street. -SH_

As he was about to press send, he instead deleted the message, and tucked it back in its place.

"Taxi!" Sherlock shouted, seeing one looking for a fare.

"Where to?"

"Green Avenue." He replied, getting into the taxi. "Its home now." Sherlock whispered to himself, wiping his face with his new scarf, although, it didn't feel right at all.


	7. Chapter Seven - The Science of Denial

Chapter Seven -_**The Science of Denial**_

"I'm glad you could make it." Lestrade said, shaking Sherlock's hand.

"I wouldn't miss it. Now, where's the body?" Sherlock looked around, taking every last inch of the scene into his brain and storing it.

"In here."

They began to walk through the small crowd of Lestrade's team. Sherlock was most fortunate to walk into Anderson.

"Ah, our favourite psychopath is back." Anderson mocked. "Are you sure you can still do this?"

"Of course I can. Better than ever." Sherlock snapped back at him, walking on into the building.

Lestrade was stood at the top of the stairs, and Sherlock was quick to join him. The house was dark; most of the windows had been barricaded by wood planks, for reasons still unknown. The only light came from the dingy light fixtures.

"There." Lestrade pointed into the first door on the left.

Inside, the room was full of clutter. Chairs thrown on top of old televisions, stuffed animals compacted into small jars that were randomly placed in unusual areas; it was a mess. Sherlock looked startled at first, but he soon began to closely inspect every element of the room.

"What am I looking for?" he asked, after a few minutes.

"This forms a wall, almost a barrier." Greg explained. "Go round."

Sherlock took a few steps to the right where there was clearly a gap. He slowly climbed over an old stereo covered in broken glass, which lead him to the rest of the big room. Here, there was nothing to clutter his way.

There was no body, but the walls were clearly what he was here to investigate. They had scribbles drawn on them, some in spray paint, some were scratched into the wall and then, on the right hand wall, a message in blood. He stepped back to read it.

'WRONG DAY TO DIE'

Sherlock flinched, recognizing the words immediately from an encounter with Moriarty. He walked over to the wall, taking out his viewfinder.

"It's real blood." He thought aloud. "Written by a woman... Right-handed..." He paused, looking round. "Was there a body?"

"No. A woman called in, reporting that she heard a gunshot. We arrived, and there was no sign of anyone being here, besides this mess and the wall. No forced entry." Lestrade explained.

"Right."

He stood back against the opposite wall, reading and re-reading the message over again. Sure, it was definitely a line he had heard before, but that didn't guarantee that it was what he thought it was.

"So, where do we go from here?"

"I don't know." Sherlock replied, before walking back round the wall of clutter to face Lestrade."I don't know." he repeated once more.

"You haven't got anything we can work off?" Lestrade asked, after an unusual period of silence.

"No."

"No?"

"Correct, I have nothing."

Sherlock presently stormed out of the house, ignoring all remarks and attempts of communication from the whole investigative team. He didn't stop to even think before he was stood on the pavement, getting into a taxi that was parked waiting for him.

"Sherlock!" he heard Greg shout after him, but his exclamation was pointless, Sherlock got in the cab and it drove away.

Inside the taxi, Sherlock quickly informed the driver of his house address and for the rest of the journey he stared out of the window the way he had become to enjoy recently. Sometimes, just sometimes, Sherlock wished that he was part of the basic public that wandered the streets, smiling and enjoying their everyday lives. They were happy, calm; it was all very hateful really.

Before long, the taxi pulled up outside the house. He got out and walked to the front door, unlocking it and walking in. The door slammed behind him.

"7 Morrison Street, Westminster."

"I'll be there in five to ten minutes."

Sherlock practically ran out of the door, jumping into the first taxi he could find and making his way to the scene. This time, he thought, this time I won't be put off. He was better now, better than ever. He could do this easily; his deductions were like a second language to him. But he needed to prove it. He needed to show everyone that he was, and still is, Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detective, the one that made people stand in awe. He would show Anderson, oh yes, he would show everyone. He was back, not only in person, but in character, in mentality, in intelligence. Nothing could faze him, not now that he had set his mind on his goal. He didn't need anyone, he didn't need assistance. Most of all, he realised that he didn't need John Watson.

He smiled to himself proudly as the car pulled up outside of a house surrounded by police cars and tape. Lestrade was stood a few meters away from the curb, talking to some part of the forensics team. He looked over when he saw the car, dismissing his conversation and walking over.

"Sherlock." He smiled, as Sherlock emerged from the taxi exactly seven minutes after Lestrade's call. "I'm pretty sure you'll be interested in this one."

"What makes you so sure?"

"It's like the last one."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Like the last one? In what way?"

"Well, there isn't any of the silly clutter this time, but there is a body-"

"So far, nothing of what you've said is the same as last time."

"The message written in blood on the wall, remember it?"

"Of course I remember it. Have they left another message?"

"They have indeed." Lestrade nodded. "But it's different."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but went along with Lestrade. They pushed past the sea of people working on the case and walked into the living room of the house. Inside, it looked normal, with nothing at all out of place. The only thing that gave the scene away was the dead body on the floor and the message plastered across the wall.

'DOES IT BURN?'

Sherlock flinched.

"Any idea what it means?" Greg asked, looking confused while rereading the message.

"I suspect it's just somebody trying to sound somewhat threatening. Nothing severe or to worry about at all." He sounded distant, walked over to the wall. He leant against it, studying it from every angle. "You were right."

"Me? About what?"

"It's the same as before. It's the same person's writing. Have you done any DNA checks?"

"We took one from the last investigation, it didn't match to anybody."

"No one at all?"

"Not a single match. Are you sure that it is real blood?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure." Sherlock was stern. He can't have fallen at the first hurdle; he couldn't have already gone against the fact that he was better now.

"It just seems strange. There's no DNA match, but you think it is-"

"It is real blood. Now, tell me, what's the situation here?" He pointed to a woman's body sprawled across the carpet.

"It's all very similar. Someone called in about a gunshot, we arrived, and there was no sign of forced entry and nothing on the body to suggest how she was killed. Certainly no bullet wound."

Sherlock nodded, crouching to the floor beside the body. He scanned it, picking up only that she was in her late forties. He crawled around it, trying to gain more information.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked hesitantly, remembering the reaction he got from this question before.

"She's in her late forties." He paused, thinking of random facts he could take from the situation. "Not married, and never has been. There's no sign of a ring ever being on her ring finger."

Lestrade smiled. "Great, great. What else?"

"Unusually large feet. Doesn't suggest anything, but I guess it's something. There is no external evidence of murder, as you said. She's wearing a t-shirt." He pointed at her bare arms. "This means either her murderer needed a new coat, or that she hasn't been purposely placed here. Is this her house?"

"Yes, she's lived here for at least five years, according to her files."

"So she was murdered here. No way would anyone go outside in this weather with such little clothing. But you say no sign of forced entry?" Sherlock stood back up. "She couldn't have left the doors unlocked, she lives alone - judging on the frankly hideous decor – and no woman living alone would be leaving doors open."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means that whoever murdered her either has a key to the house, is a relative or is staying with her. What can you tell me family wise?"

Greg picked up her file from the table where he had left it, flicking through pages until he found the right one. "No alive parents. One brother who died a few years ago and his wife. No children either." Lestrade squinted at the page. "It looks like the woman's sister-in-law is the mother of someone you may know."

He raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"This woman is the aunt of Molly Hooper."

Sherlock's breath hitched. Molly's aunt? Had Molly heard the news?

"I see."

"How are you and Molly, if you don't mind me asking?"

"We're fine." He lied. Sherlock hadn't heard from Molly since the day he had shouted at her. Of course, he couldn't blame her.

"Do you want to tell her about this yourself?"

"No, no. The police can tell her."

"Right. So, back to the case. You're thinking it's a family member?"

"I'm trying to think of people she would allow into her house. Have you spoken to the sister?"

"Not yet. But we will. Shall I make a note to let you know the information we get from that?"

"Yes. Be sure to ask about their relationship."

Lestrade nodded.

"Well, there isn't really much else I can help you with." Sherlock announced.

"Alright, well, I'll call you when I have information."

"Please." And with that, Sherlock walked out of the house, returning home.

Looking back, this was the last time Sherlock ever contributed useful information to a case. When Lestrade called concerning Molly's mother, he was informed that she had been in Australia for 3 months. From there, Sherlock had no further ideas as to a possible murderer. Lestrade had called once more afterwards, just to double-check that Sherlock had no leads. In the week after this incident, he had called with a new case, or on some days, even two, everyday. Sherlock had turned up at the first, which again, had similarities to the previous cases. But the only thing Sherlock had been interested in was what was going to be scribed on the wall.

'THE VILLAIN IS BACK'

This was the last scene that Sherlock visited. Quite rightly too, as he knew exactly what all this meant. Moriarty was back. He didn't know how, he didn't know why, but it was so. He probably would have been able to come up with a logical explanation for it if he wasn't plain terrified. Being terrified was certainly an emotion Sherlock did not like to associate with himself, which came to light when he and John had visited Dartmoor. But there was no fog here that was making Sherlock see things that weren't there. No, this was reality. Moriarty wasn't a hallucination, he was a plague, who no matter how far Sherlock ran, couldn't be avoided. And now, not even his own brain could avoid it. He couldn't even do what he did best, what it was designed to do.

The next day, Lestrade called again, but Sherlock refused to join him, instead he asked solely for the message. "It makes no sense, you know. Anyway, let me just go into the room. Right, 'DONT BE SO OBVIOUS'. What does it even mean? Obvious about what?" Greg never got an answer to his questions. Sherlock had ended the call already. He had slumped down in his chair, the same one that he had fallen asleep in with Molly. It was painfully beautiful. Memory is a funny thing. It can be so kind, allowing you to remember what made you happy and visually relive it in your mind. But on the other hand, it can poison your world, making you remember every single thing you have ever done wrong. Memory is a funny thing.

Later on that evening, Sherlock received another call. It was ironic how when he needed a case, they never came. But now that he didn't want anything to do with the business, they were flooding in. He took a deep breath before answering. This time it was a banker found dead in his office in Central London. "'I'VE ENJOYED THIS LITTLE GAME' is all it says, what game, Sherlock?" He had ended the call once more, laughing pitifully at his own stupid misfortune. Sherlock had truly believed he could return to his previous life, without problem or trouble, better than before. Yet here he was, without the ability to even process information. It sounded stupid, but he could literally feel the walls of his and palace break and fall. They hadn't fallen at all, not in the slightest. He could still visit, but it wasn't the same. The walls were trashed with the images of the blood-written messages, and every fragment of his sanity had been concealed by pure terror.

Lestrade called back at two in the afternoon on the next day. Again, he asked Sherlock to join him. And in all fairness to the man, Sherlock nearly did. But before accepting the invitation, Sherlock was forced to ask the question regarding the only important piece of information to him. "Alright. Hey, this one isn't very nice at all. It says, 'ISNT ST BARTS A DULL PLACE TO WORK?' That's a bit harsh. When will you be here?" And once more, Lestrade was left with his only answer being the droning tone of an ended call.

From then on, with a subtle text to Lestrade, Sherlock asked only to hear what the writing said. Until the end of that week, there were five more cases.

'I DON'T GET MY HANDS DIRTY'

'BRITISH ARMY BROWNING L9A1' (Lestrade had asked him whether this was a clue as to what gun the murderer was using. Sherlock had laughed and ended the call.)

'WHERE'S YOUR AUDIENCE?'

'WE WERE MEANT FOR EACHOTHER'

The last one came early on a Monday morning. It had started snowing at about 6am, and by the time the call came at 10am, it still was, Sherlock was curled up in his chair, the chair, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. This wasn't unusual; he hadn't changed since the night of his last case. He had hardly moved either, getting up only to retrieve another book. Sherlock had already managed to read ten of them, each of which he finished with a sigh and a throwing to the corner. They were mostly of the crime genre, which he read in the hope of bringing his mind back to life, hoping he could predict the ending before any information began to make sense. Unfortunately, he wasn't so lucky, which explained his constant sighing. At quarter to ten that morning, he picked up a book of which he was highly unsure of its place in his reading pile. It was called 'A Dummy's Guide to Beekeeping.' He raised an eyebrow. A book about beekeeping? And for idiots? A lump formed in his throat. He was an idiot now, wasn't he? After turning it in his hands a few times, he opened it, deciding it might take his mind off of everything else that was circulating around him.

He was reading through the section dedicated to a bee's dietary requirements when Lestrade's final call came.  
"Sherlock-"  
"Tell me. The writing. What's does it say?"  
"Sherlock, this is different-"  
"Different how? Is there writing?"  
"Well, yes-"  
"So what are you waiting for?"  
"Will you just hear me out?"  
"The writing, Lestrade."

"'CONFRONT THE FINAL PROBLEM' is all it says. Now before you hang up-"

The line went dead, but he called back straight away.

"I really don't have the time for this-"

"It's Mrs. Hudson."

"What about her?"

"That's the case, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Sherlock fell silent.

"Are you still there?"

"Where is she?"

"The morgue. This time, there was a bullet wound."

Sherlock paused before his next question. "What... what gun was it?"

"The gun I suggested before from the wall, that Browning one."

"Where?"

"In her flat-"

"No, on the body. Where on the body?"

"Straight through the heart."

Sherlock ended the call more imaginatively this time, with it cutting off due to the phone being smashed against the wall. He bowed his head, unsure of what to do. He felt sick, she was dead and it was his fault, it was his entire fault. But where was he to go now? He had lost John, he had driven away Molly, he was ignoring Lestrade and Irene was dead. Of course, there was his family, but he couldn't turn to them. They would only ask what he had done to the others, which certainly wouldn't be helpful. Mycroft would only push him further about John; since their last meeting, Sherlock had received 30 messages concerning the subject. He safely concluded that he was in fact alone. Usually, this would be tempting, Sherlock longed for private time to himself, but now it just felt dark and desolate. He had no friends, which he had mentioned multiple times, but now his phrase was truer than ever.

His eyes flickered to the top drawer of the chest of them to the east of the room. He shook his head. No, he thought, you can't do it. But he found himself standing up already, walking towards it. Sherlock had finally lost control of himself. Opening the top drawer, he was greeted by scattered stacks of paper, which formed a thick layer over the true contents. After moving it all to one side, he removed a small wooden box. It rattled as it was lifted and he placed it on the sofa. Inside was everything Sherlock craved. There were some loose cigarettes, a lighter, a bottle of painkillers and a syringe. He picked up a cigarette, ready to light it, but his eyes flashed to the needle. Sherlock let go of the cigarette, instead lifting the small plastic and metal key to forgetting. That's what he needed to do.

Of course, he had practically forgotten everything of use to him, which left him in a position of being the same as everyone else. It was something he once wished for, but actually having that sort of mental abilities proved to him that he preferred himself the way he was before. What he felt now, was something he knew he had been close to feeling only once, when standing on top of a building telling his best friend that he wasn't who he said he was. It was emotion at its finest, and he hated it. He hated that someone else's inconvenience could so simply become his own. In fact, it was infuriating; which again, he hated. Emotions really weren't his thing. Oh, how he used to pity the ordinary, and now he was ordinary himself.

Now, he was mourning, not that he wanted to. But that is the frailty of Sherlock Holmes; he was a man who didn't realise what he had until it was gone. The easiest thing he could do? Forget. Forget everything. And if taking a substance he hadn't touched for five years was what it took, then that's what he would do. Sherlock held the syringe tightly in his right hand. For at least 20 minutes he sat there, staring blankly at nothing once more. "Say goodbye, Mr. Holmes." He muttered to himself, rolling his sleeve up past his elbow, exposing his most prominent vein. The metal lingered over his arm. The scars from his previous habits had begun to fade last year, and now they were barely noticeable. But yet, here was, prepared to make it happen all over again. Even so, he began to lower the syringe.

Sherlock stopped just before metal touched skin. He couldn't do it and there was only one reason why; John. John had had Sherlock tell him that he had believed in a lie then saw him die. He had lived with that, and still did. John Watson, dear John Watson, hadn't turned to a stupid drug to forget him. He had trashed the apartment, yes, but that was natural and Sherlock expected nothing less when he thought about it. John was strong, and Sherlock was not. John had had to live with the pain of his death, and here Sherlock was, trying to make himself forget. Therefore, he must deal with the pain too, for John. He slammed the syringe down on the coffee table and he sat back on the sofa. Then, he did something he never thought he would. Sherlock Holmes let his emotion out, and he cried. He cried until his eyes were sore.

Sherlock winced as he wiped his pained eyes. He knew the time had to come soon anyway, but he wasn't prepared at all. Getting up with blurry vision, he went upstairs and got dressed as fast as his eyesight would allow him. When he had decided that he looked remotely decent, he rushed out of the door. For once, good old London was kind to him. A taxi soon pulled up outside the house and he climbed in.

"Where to?"

"221b Baker Street."

He had no real thought processes during this time and if he did, he didn't remember any of it. Sherlock experienced a new emotion though, which he certainly did remember; anxiety. He was nervous. Seriously nervous. But this time, there was no turning back.

He paid the driver and ran into the apartment block. He looked regretfully at Mrs. Hudson's flat, but blinked a few times to stop himself from shedding more pitiful tears. Instead, Sherlock looked up the stairs towards his own flat. It was quiet, very quiet; John wasn't here yet. He walked up the stairs, the stairs he knew so well, narrowly avoiding the places he knew creaked.

Once he got to the top, he stopped, staring at the closed door for a short while. He hadn't been here in three weeks, and he had no idea what he was going to find this time. He was pretty sure there would be more letters, but what state would everything else be in? Had John trashed the place once more? Or had he already done it and cleared up? Either way, he would soon see.

Sherlock stepped forward and pushed the door opened. The door creaked, and the figure bent over Sherlock's desk turned round. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

Two pairs of swollen, raw eyes met.


	8. Chapter Eight - John Watson

**Chapter Eight - **_**John Watson**__  
_

Sherlock was awoken as he fell to the floor beside the sofa. He blinked his eyes open, realising where he was. His face felt salty from tears. The last thing he had remembered was letting his emotions run wild.

The next thing he remembered was his dream. Out of all the things he could have dreamt of, he was pretty sure dreaming of John Watson wasn't the first choice. Yet without reasoning, he had dreamt of their reunion. 

The wind outside blew harder than before and the sun was nowhere to be seen beside the glare that it left against the ice. Although it was constantly cold outside, Sherlock's favourite season had become winter. How he adored to watch the snowflakes descend and flutter by his window. Yet today, or perhaps just for this year, he hated the winter. Every icicle came with a personal comparison to himself; cold and sharp. Dangerous, even. Without stability. And it shook him, truly it did. Never would he care for metaphors, but it was hard to avoid them when they shadowed his every step. Goosebumps formed on his arms and he wrapped himself up tighter in the dressing gown. 

Sherlock came to the conclusion he had been awaiting for years, but had previously dismissed. He was the problem. Sherlock Holmes was the problem. He was the one who caused the pain, the one who rendered people as useless and constantly let his closest companions down. Therefore, he had to once more compare himself, but this time to Moriarty. Previously described as a plague, Jim Moriarty was little different to Sherlock himself. They were the same, besides that one of them had been eradicated, at least, he had been. 

He couldn't spend the day in sorrow and suggesting that he was Moriarty though, as that would be highly illogical and a good waste of time. Yet at the same time, he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. 

He had mastered the art of being an insufferable human, if only that. But people had stayed by him. Perhaps complete desolation was what he deserved? He had been that way not long ago, but due to recent events, he had quickly dragged six innocent people into his own web, which had already caused the number to drop to five. 

Jim Moriarty was dead, of that he was certain. No matter what his stupidity was telling him, his eyes could not deceive him. There was a bullet carefully planted in the spider's skull, and that was the end of that. This new evidence, the blood writing, was clearly completed by an accomplice. Sherlock had enemies; of course, there was hardly any doubt in that statement. But to define one that would be prepared to team up with Moriarty and then go on to murder his own mother would be a much harder task. One he could not complete by himself. 

Sherlock Holmes could not form an alliance easily. Considering the circle of people he held close, there was no one he could get along with without complication. Lestrade was an obvious choice, but due to the mannerisms in which Sherlock had last communicated with him, he could not see that working out. Irene Adler was a no-go. All credit to her, she was far more intelligent than her frequented hobby suggested. Concerning their last encounter, in which she had believed Sherlock had plans to date her, she too was removed from the list of options. His brother was never an option. Mycroft would cause more hindrance than assistance. If anything, he would only continue to encourage Sherlock to communicate with John- 

John. John Hamish Watson, war hero and Sherlock's closest and dearest. Sherlock Holmes needed John Watson. In all fairness, he always had. But again, his stubborn and selfish nature had prohibited him from seeing such an obvious resolution. 

Sherlock smirked to himself, as he rose and stood by the window. His dream had not been an out-of-the-ordinary fantasy. It had been the push that Sherlock had truly needed; the push to make him see sense and for once, take Mycroft's advice. 

The plan formed quickly; he was to recreate the scenes from his dream. Sherlock got changed as quickly as he possibly could and ran out the door, leaving it unlocked, to hail a cab. The journey to Baker Street took little to no time at all, as he was too occupied with a cocktail of anxiety and excitement, as anyone would be when meeting an old friend. He used the key he still possessed to unlock the door to 221b, and climbed the stairs, bursting open the door. 

But alas, the room was lacking a key feature: John. He wasn't there, not even a trace. Sherlock bit hard on his lip, bowing his head. He turned back around, descending to where the door for Mrs Hudson's flat resided. He knocked twice, before her frail silhouette was visible behind the door and she opened it, throwing herself at Sherlock. At first, he was taken aback, confused as to what was happening, but he remembered soon enough. He and Mrs Hudson had shared emotion; they were both in mourning. His arms wrapped around her small frame, letting her know that he had the same pain. He jumped slightly as the door behind them opened. 

"Mrs Hudson, I heard the news about Patricia, I'm so sorry- oh my god." John gasped, as Sherlock turned round to his voice. 

"John." he managed to mutter, although his heart was following its steps from his dream. 

They stood there in silence, just staring in disbelief. All that was audible was their heavy breathing and Mrs Hudson's slow sobs. Sherlock was the first to speak. 

"John, I- ouch!" He was cut off by John taking a long stride forward and giving Sherlock a harsh punch to the shoulder. 

"You bloody idiot." was all he said. 

"Trust me in this; I am so very sorry-" 

"You better be sorry." John interrupted as he turned and walked up the stairs to the apartment. 

"John!" Sherlock called after him. 

But he got no reply besides the harsh slam of the door. Sherlock faced Mrs Hudson, who was still sobbing, but louder now. She looked up at him pitifully, the way he had at her apartment in the dream, and then she scurried into her own apartment. Sherlock was now alone in the small hallway.  
What was he to do? He was asking himself the same question. Sherlock had two options: leave, or go up and try to talk to John. He went against his options and instead sunk onto the bottom step, hiding his face in his hands. Pain is there to kill you, to thrill you and primarily to tear you apart. So it took no time in waiting. 

"Fight it, Sherlock." He whispered in encouragement to himself. "Fight for John." 

Repeating this numerous times, he got up and climbed the stairs, knocking on John's door. 

"I don't see what else you can possibly say." John said from behind the door. 

"Do what you want, John. I'm not stopping until I have my Watson back." 

"You'll be waiting a while for that." 

"Even if it takes the rest of my life, I will fight for you." 

"It's not like the great Sherlock Holmes to fight a losing battle." John replied sarcastically. 

"It's not a losing battle if I win it." 

"Which you won't." 

Sherlock paused, thinking of a different approach. "I read your letters." 

There was a silence. "I thought you had." came the almost whispering voice. 

"You had every right to trash the apartment." 

"I did." 

"You remember my book pattern." 

"No I don't." 

"If you didn't remember it, you wouldn't know they were in the right order." 

Silence. 

"Please don't do it, John." 

"Do what?" 

"The army." 

Silence. 

"I know you're angry with me, but the army isn't the way to go." 

"You don't have a clue." 

"Correct. But if you're willing to share it with me, we can get over this together." 

"It's too late." 

"It's never too late." 

The door creaked open, revealing the swollen eyes Sherlock had dreamt of. Yet in reality, it felt so

much worse. 

"It wasn't locked." John shrugged. 

"Right." 

"You have a lot of explaining to do." 

Before Sherlock could reply, he was dragged into the apartment and pushed onto one of the chairs. They had been replaced (as the last ones had been destroyed), but they looked almost identical. John sat in the other, staring at Sherlock's surprised face. 

"Go on." 

"And do what?" Sherlock asked at the plain encouragement. 

"Tell me." 

"What do you want to know?" 

"Everything." 

"It's highly illogical to ask to know everything, John. It's practically impossible for me to recite all

knowledge-" 

"Sherlock." John stopped him. 

"Yes?" 

"Tell me everything that happened. You fell to the floor in front of my eyes. You were dead on the floor. It was definitely you." 

"As ever, you see, but do not observe." Sherlock smiled proudly. 

"Quit the philosophy junk, just tell me what happened." 

"To begin with, you are incorrect. You didn't see me fall to the floor. You saw me fall." Sherlock

explained. 

"That's what I said." 

"You said you saw me fall to the floor. Which you didn't. You never saw me hit the floor." 

"I came round the corner and there you were! You were there on the floor!" 

"Oh, yes." Sherlock chuckled. "I remember your look of pure shock." 

"What do you mean you remember? You could see me?" 

"Of course." 

"This is ridiculous. If you were there, you were alive, why couldn't you have just said something! Why have me this way for a year?" 

"There was nothing I could do." 

"What were you even trying to prove with this whole façade? Trying to see whether I would care or something?" John's voice was now raised; he was clearly angry. 

"No, John. That would be a pointless exercise." 

"So what was it for? If you wanted some time away, you could have just said. There was no need to fake death-" 

"I didn't want time away. I wanted time for you to live." Sherlock took a deep breath. 

John looked baffled. "You're going to have to explain." 

"Moriarty was up there with me-" 

"Moriarty was there?" John interrupted. 

"John, if you want to know everything, it would be helpful if you weren't to interrupt after every sentence." 

"Sorry." 

"Where was I? Yes, so he was up there with me. I had been up there since you left. We were talking. He let me know his intentions. He was to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if I didn't kill myself. Three snipers for three victims. Neat, really." 

John rolled his eyes at this point. "But surely someone would have seen you?" 

"Did you see me alive?" 

"No." 

"My point exactly. Before you begin to worry, as people do a lot, Moriarty is dead. I tried to convince him that he didn't need to kill you three and well, boom." 

"Boom?" 

"Shot himself through the mouth." 

John raised an eyebrow. "He killed himself? Why?" 

"No idea. I guess it meant it left me with no other choice." 

"But if he was dead, then you didn't have to jump?" 

"Oh, John." Sherlock sighed. "Moriarty was the one who could call off those snipers. Him alone. From where we were, there was only one man who could see the roof, he was the man who would go to tell the others if I hadn't jumped. One man was at Scotland Yard, ready to kill Lestrade, and one was right under your nose when you went running to Baker Street after that fake call."  
John put a hand over his mouth. "The man there to help her, he was going to kill her?" 

"Precisely." 

"I'm such an idiot! Why didn't I do anything? I just left her!" John said, panicked. 

"John, calm down. You weren't to know." 

"But I could have stopped him! I could have gotten her out of there!" 

"And risk being shot. Which I wouldn't have known about, which in turn, would have destroyed the whole plan."

"Alright, alright. I'm just mad that I was there while she was in danger and I didn't do anything!" John was getting more caught up in his own guilt than the main situation.

"You weren't to know. Anyway, she's safe now, isn't she?"

"But still-"

Sherlock sighed. "I think you may have forgotten about my death here."

"I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be a positive thing." John smiled weakly.

"Yes, well, it is. But going off on a tangent about saving Mrs Hudson is not going to resolve our problem."

John stood up straight, composing himself. "Get up." Sherlock looked around the room, knowing John was talking to him, but was still confused as to what had happened. "Yes, I'm talking to you."

"Are you asking me to leave?" Sherlock had to ask as he lifted himself slowly from the chair. "Because I've already told you, I'm not leaving-"

Sherlock was cut off by John wrapping his arms around him. At first, Sherlock stood motionless, taken aback by the whole affair. He was still expecting John to have his abusive attitude like he had downstairs, as he probably deserved. Sherlock was yet to respond.

"Hug me, you fool." John ordered.

"Right." Sherlock hovered his arms a bit and then embraced John back tightly.

John pulled back. "Alright, I didn't want you to strangle me."

"Sorry, sorry." he mumbled, looking down at his arms like they had done serious damage.

"It's fine." John laughed. "I'm guessing you aren't trained in the art of hugging."

"Not really, no."

John took a deep breath. "I absolutely despise you right now, Sherlock."

In that moment, Sherlock saw his world falling. He had stated he wouldn't leave without his Watson- which he wouldn't- but what if he left without his John? Watson was purely Doctor Watson, a professional name. John was personal, as first names were, and that was what mattered. Sherlock wasn't here to reconnect with a working partner; he was here to get his best friend back, the only one who truly mattered. What would he do? That was the question running through his mind in the few seconds he had without John saying anything. What would Sherlock do without John? While Sherlock had been away for a year, he had been occupied with getting rid of Moriarty's men, who didn't give him much chance to be alone and thinking about life without John.

Sherlock was brought back to reality as John spoke again. "Don't look so shocked. I've always hated you. But in the good way."

"You hate me, in a good way?"

"Correct. But anyway, I hate that you didn't tell me you were alive. But I do realise you had little other choice. It was to save us, and I appreciate that, you know."

"I would rather have died than have you die."

"That's a pretty noble thing to do, Sherlock."

"If you say so." Sherlock shrugged.

"Which I did. But as angry as I am at you, it's safe to say that I missed you, a hell of a lot. And I don't want to have to do that again. I missed my best friend."

Sherlock smiled sheepishly at the ground. He had his John.

"I missed you too, John."

"Always good to know." John smiled back.

Sherlock knew that there was only one problem with this whole arrangement. John had been training for the army. He was pretty sure that the army wasn't an easy thing to get out of. In fact, there was probably no way.

"Sit down." Sherlock asked calmly, pointing to John's previous seat as he sat down in his own.

John sat down in the chair, looking confused as to what the reason behind this request was.

"John, you're going back there." Sherlock addressed.

"What do you mean?"

"Afghanistan."

John sat back, folding his arms. "I know. There's nothing I can do."

"I can't let you go. I just can't. I can't protect you out there."

"I wish I didn't have to go, Sherlock, I really wish I didn't. I just don't see a way out of it." John sighed.

Sherlock thought for a minute. There had to be a loophole.

Then it hit him. There was one person who was sure to be able to fix this. Sherlock dialled the number and it answered on the fifth ring, to be expected.

"Unlike you to be calling me instead of texting, brother dear." Mycroft greeted.

"This is a matter of urgency."

"An urgent matter? Ah, I see. The job is already done, Sherlock."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to say by the tone of your voice and the matter in which you are breathing that you have finally reunited with John, only to realise you have the hurdle of his return to Afghanistan."

"Mother must have hated us together." Sherlock chuckled lightly.

"Mycroft?" John mouthed. Sherlock nodded.

"Indeed she did. I can only imagine her annoyance when she discovered you were just as bad as me."

"You say the job is done?"

"Spoke to the head of the military office two weeks ago. John's military training past that date has been pointless. He's safe, Sherlock."

Sherlock was wearing a smile that made it look like he would break into tears once more. Obviously, John was here, so there was no way he planned on doing that. Instead, he nodded reassuringly so John knew the verdict.

"Thank you, brother." Sherlock muttered.

"Not a problem. Say hello to John for me. I hope you two are alright."

When Sherlock ended the call, he rested the phone on the arm of the chair, looking at it for a minute.

"You're safe, John." He smiled.

"I'll never be safe with you around." John laughed.

Sherlock's face went blank. He was yet to understand the art behind quick jokes.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't look so serious! I meant it like, you know, there's always some sort of danger with a case-"

"I would never put you in danger, John. Never. If I knew you would be harmed, I wouldn't allow you to join me."

"Sherlock-" John started, tearing up himself.

They both looked over at the door as it burst open, revealing Molly Hooper. Sherlock and John's eyes widened in confusion.

"Molly?" Sherlock stuttered.

"Hope you don't mind me joining you." She smiled, sitting down on the sofa on the opposite side of the room and placing her bag on the floor.


End file.
